


Hatred Breeds Fondness

by ChatNoirIsMiraculous



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: AU, Accidental Love, Agatha has her shit together, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Pining Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Simon Snow is an Idiot, baz thinks he's a genius, coffeeshopAU, enemies to texting to lovers i guess, help me, penny is so over this, they're all idiots, they're both smitten
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:55:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23661178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChatNoirIsMiraculous/pseuds/ChatNoirIsMiraculous
Summary: I lost a bet. Penny looked me dead in the eyes, “I’ll bet that you can’t go this whole match without making one comment about him.”I laughed and her smile grew, “What do you want to bet?”“If you win I’ll buy everyone a pint,” she yelled and a chorus of cheers erupted from the back of the bar. “If I win,” she said as she leaned down, “you have to wear a Pitch jersey to Agatha’s party on Friday.”I rolled my eyes and shoved my hand into hers.She shook it, “It’s a deal.”
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 10
Kudos: 99





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> @broe.biddy (insta) did the amazing art that inspired this fic as a part of our collaborations! The art will be attached in the endnotes of the chapters. Go check out her insta and give her some love!!!!!

Simon-

I lost a bet. Penny was wrong when she announced to the table that I don’t like Baz Pitch. I hate him. She stood up and everyone seated at the oak table watched as she thrust her finger at the dingy monitor hanging over the bar, the turquoise and purple Watford jerseys merely pixels on the outdated screen. Her giant ring glinted under the yellow lights as a smile stretched across her face. 

She swivelled her chin and looked me dead in the eye, “I’ll bet that you can’t go this whole match without making one comment about him.”

I laughed and her smile grew, “What do you want to bet?” 

Rhys and Gareth looked at each other and cackled. 

“If you win I’ll buy everyone a pint,” she yelled and a chorus of cheers erupted from the back of the bar. “If I win,” she said as she leaned down, “you have to wear a Pitch jersey to Agatha’s party on Friday.”  
I rolled my eyes and shoved my hand into hers. 

She shook it, “It’s a deal.”

Penny shuffles around the dorm the night of the party looking for her purple skirt. 

She drops to her knees and sticks her head under the bed. “I really don’t understand why the two of you are still together.”

I sigh, Penelope is well aware that Agatha and I are having a bit of a tit over me not coming to tea with her parents the previous weekend. The headmaster asked me to run an errand and by the time I remembered I was supposed to be sitting in a white wicker chair sipping on unsweetened tea and talking about scholarships it was too late.

“We’re just going through another rough patch.” Penny’s head pops back up, purple fabric clenched in one fist, she raises her other hand and I grab it, yanking her back to her feet. “We’ll be fine. We’re always fine.” Penny scrunches her brow and puffs out a breath. 

It’s more than the missed tea time though, Agatha’s been extremely passive with me lately. Whenever I try to explain myself it’s always a lot of “Sure Simon”s and exasperated sighs. She seems more withdrawn than she’s ever been. This isn’t the first time we’ve hit a dry patch, but this one’s outlasted the others. 

I’m glad she decided to throw her annual end of summer party. For a while I didn’t think she’d throw it while we were fighting. (Are we fighting?) (Can you be fighting when neither side has any passion in the argument?) I told Penny and she said I was being ridiculous, “Agatha’s decisions don’t depend on her relationship status, Simon.”

She’s right. She’s always right. Agatha’s decisions have always been her own and there’s nothing I can do except wait for her to make them.

Penny turns away from me and walks into her bedroom. I can hear her rummaging around again. She comes out wearing the purple skirt and holding out a bundle of cloth for me. Turquoise and purple. The Watford home jersey.  
She gives me a shit-eating smile, “Suit up.”

The party’s already in full swing by the time our Uber pulls up to the curb of the reserved restaurant. The fabric of the jersey is itchy which only makes me hate it more. Before we left the dorm Penny made sure that I looked in a mirror and could see the giant PITCH embossed on the back. 

We wade our way inside, pushing through crowds of people in various stages of sobriety. One bloke knocks into my shoulder so hard that I crash backward into Penny. The room is packed with people. I can already feel sweat collecting at the back of my neck.

I see Agatha sitting at the bar with a gin. She’s wearing a sheer ivory blouse and her hair is pulled into a tousled bun. She looks posh. Everyone here looks posh. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were even a few celebrities milling around. Agatha’s cheeks are rosy and she glows even under the shitty bar lighting. Penny waves and pushes me hard in the back to get me moving in her direction.

When we reach her she looks at my jersey, a crinkle in her brow. She goes to open her mouth then changes her mind and snaps it shut. Penny gives me a look then turns back into the crowd. Agatha swirls her gin.

“Listen Agatha-” I start. 

“Simon.” She brings her eyes up to mine.

She sighs, disinterested again. I want to scream. “This isn’t working for me,” she purses her glossy lips, “and I don’t think it’s working for you either.”

I start to open my mouth but she cuts me off, “I know it’s not working for you. Simon when was the last time you kissed me? When was the last time you wanted to kiss me?” 

I don’t say anything and she sighs again, “I don’t think you have for a long time.”

My head is full of static. I can’t think. I can’t speak. Is she right? I can’t remember the last time I pulled her to me. Have I ever as an act of desire or only because I felt compelled to as a boyfriend?

My mouth is dry, “Are you asking to take another break?”

She flinches and my body turns numb. 

“No, Simon. I’m breaking up with you. I can’t be your placeholder anymore.” She gives me one last pitying look and brushes past me. Her gin sweats on the bartop, beads of condensation pooling to the wood, abandoned. The rim of the glass imprinted with a sparkly pink smudge of lip gloss.

I call down the bar for a beer. I should feel upset but I don’t feel anything. That’s the problem, I think bitterly, that’s been the problem this whole time. I call for another beer. 

By the time Penny finds me at the bar I’ve lost count of how many beers I’ve had. The bartender looks relieved when he sees Penny pull me off the stool. I stumble and almost take her down with me.

She doesn’t say anything just wrinkles her brow and stares at me disapprovingly. I’m sure I’ll get the scolding of a lifetime when we get back to the dorm.

She snaps in front of my eyes and it takes my brain a while to focus on what she’s saying.

“-Stay here, I need to go grab our coats. Simon, are you listening to me? Don’t move, I'll be right back.” She peeks back at me once over her shoulder then gets swallowed by the mass of sweaty bodies. 

My tongue feels heavy in my mouth and everything tastes like cotton. My head feels too heavy for my neck and the jersey keeps scratching me. I claw at it. 

A tall man with broad shoulders bumps into me and I stumble forward. Saved only by catching myself on his sleeve. His jacket looks dark and expensive, so does he. It’s immediately apparent that the man is gorgeous. His shoulder-length hair falls in inky curtains and frames his sharp pale face. His eyes are impassive and he looks like a statue brought to life.

He looks at my jersey and the corner of his lip tugs down. Does he not like my jersey? I don’t like my jersey. I realize I’m still holding onto his arm. His posture’s stiff, as if he doesn’t know whether he should yank his sleeve out of my hands and go about his business.

I pull the collar away from my neck.

“I hate this thing,” I slur.

He raises one brow, perfectly cool, “Oh?”

“It’s really not the team though is it?” The words crash out of my mouth.

I nod my head to every word, “It’s Pitch that’s the problem.” At this, both of his brows shoot up to his hairline.

“That bastard thinks he knows everything. He thinks he’s too good for his own conference!” 

The stranger’s lip quirks up, “Does he?”

I huff, “Of course! He and his damn calves can go find another conference if he thinks he’s too good!” I’m shouting now.

“His calves?”

I nod enthusiastically, glad that he’s following, “Yes! If you ask me,” I lean in conspiratorially, “Baz Pitch is nothing but a flaming asshole who thinks he’s too pretty and too good for anyone.” 

I look over his shoulder and see Penny gawking at me. I wave her over enthusiastically. The stranger nods at her in greeting but she just stares at him. That’s odd for Penny but I ignore it.

“Is he pretty?” The stranger asks.

I huff, “Of course he is. Pitch is as hot as they come, but that’s his only personality trait, the twat. He wouldn’t know human compassion if it punched him in his self-obsessed face.”

Penny’s jaw drops and I look at her confused. She’s heard me say all of this before. The stranger makes a thoughtful sound then pulls out a smart black mobile from an interior pocket. His jacket is made of some sort of glittery material. It looks devastatingly handsome paired with the white dress shirt underneath. I’m practically swooning. His body looks built and I want to press my hands all over his chest. 

“You’re right, Baz Pitch is a twat,” he says, then smirks as he holds out his mobile. “Can I get your number?”

“Penny, did you see his ass when he walked away?” Penny looks back at me mortified. 

She stands up abruptly, “That’s it. I can’t deal with this. I’m going to bed. Good luck, Simon.”

The man’s face swims in my head. He was handsome in a way that’s all consuming. My inebriated brain clings to the memory of his dark hair was lush and full, a widow’s peak showing off his wide forehead. I close my eyes and imagine raking my fingers through that hair and pulling on the ends. In my mind the strangers head tips back and bears his neck for me. 

I reach for my phone and find the contact “tall dark and gorgeous” and type out a text.

<<< I’ll bet that Watford will lose 2-1 tmr 

<<< and that Pitch will get at least one yellow card

I sit back onto the couch pillows and wait for a response. To my surprise the little dots appear almost immediately.

>>> two yellow cards and Watford will win 3-2.

<<< you’re on

>>> what do I get if I win?

I grin wolfishly at the message and think about what I want out of this and what I’m willing to give. 

<<< I’ll send you a picture

>>> a picture?

I sit up and snap a picture of my torso. In the low light, long shadows pool in my collar bones and cling to my chest. The stiff material of the jersey hints at the broadness of my shoulders. I’m bolstered with drunken confidence. The line of my neck can barely be seen, a long expanse of freckles litters the skin. I send it and my nerves light up in anticipation.  
In an action I can only assume is driven by alcohol I text:

<<< next time no Pitch jersey

I wait three minutes before the text bubble reappears.

>>> and if you win?

<<< that’s up to you

I put my phone onto the cushion and wait. My insides are liquid fire. I imagine his lithe fingers typing out a response. I wait for ten minutes and no response comes. I wait another five. Nothing. I get up and undress, discarding the Watford jersey to the floor. Bold white letters stare back at me. I grab my phone and climb into bed. Just as I’m drifting off to sleep when my phone buzzes. I open it and almost fall off the bed.

It’s a mirror picture. The man stands off-center and the mirror captures his crisp white dress shirt tucked into the front of dark pants. His waist is trim and leads perfectly into his built thighs. Only the bottom of his face is visible, he’s smirking at the camera, hair curving around his cheeks. The area where his shirt slips into his pants is wrinkled and I want to press my hands to it and smooth the lines. My already dry mouth loses all moisture instantly. When I’m finally able to look away from the picture I almost pass out from the adjoining text.

>>> next time it’s up to you.

I fall asleep absolutely wrecked.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Texting with Simon has become a regular thing and Baz can feel his control over the situation slipping away.

Baz-

>>> holy shit did you see that pass?

>>> I can’t believe Dev got away with that

>>> definitely should’ve been carded

>>> Pitch got lucky on that last call. bastard.

>>> I can’t believe they’re winning

>>> it’s the last five minutes????? why tf did Pitch feel the need to get ANOTHER yellow card??

>>> this is ridiculous. I can’t believe u guessed it perfectly

My phone buzzes and I smirk as I look at it again. 

>>> what could he possibly have to gain from tripping that poor guy???

A lot, I think. I’m still in my kitt and my boots are laced. The locker room air is dense with steam from the showers and the air is heavy with sweat. I grin down at my phone like an absolute moron until Dev shoves me in the direction of the shower. He’s been watching me for far too long. I don’t blame him, I look like an idiot. The rest of the team is leaving or already gone. 

I shove my phone into my duffel and let my face settle. I peel my shirt off and toss it in the bin and take the fastest shower of my life. Then, I’m jogging up the steps to my flat, my hair still dripping onto my shoulders. I pull up my messages and read through the latest.

>>> Pitch played like an animal

>>> srsly wtf the replays are even more vicious in slow-mo

A grin rips across my face and I text back.

<<< You seriously can’t of expected him to let Lutton’s team win

>>> Lutton’s defense is far superior to Watford’s

>>> rivalry be damned

>>> I would’ve loved to see them kick Watford’s ass

<<< Their sweeper’s never in the right spot, it leaves them open

<<< It’s not much of a rivalry when Watford’s beaten them for the past six games

>>> Still the goal from the second half was insanely lucky

<<< Lucky? Pitch set DeVon up perfectly

And I did too. There’s no way DeVon would’ve made the shot without me.

>>> that’s beside the point

>>> you won the bet :(

>>> I seem to be losing a lot of them these days

A tendril of anticipation curls in my chest. Last night when I opened the picture I sloshed tea all over my carpet. When he bumped into me at the party he was drunk off his arse. He was gorgeous, made entirely of bronze, and flecked with moles. Four moles lined a trail down his neck and disappeared under the collar of his jersey. Of my jersey. I wanted to trace the line to his sternum with the flat of my tongue, I wanted to lick the salt from his body until I reached fabric. He was so drunk he didn’t even recognize me. His friend certainly did. From his texts it doesn’t sound like she’s told him. Good, I’d like to see where this goes without my name getting in the way. 

He basically fell in my lap last night, tousled hair tacky with sweat and reeking of beer. Then he had the nerve to talk shit about me while wearing my name printed to his shoulder blades and swathed in my colors. I’ve never been so turned on in my entire life.

My phone buzzes and I open the attachment with shaking hands. The background is dark with only one overhead light. He’s holding his phone with one hand and using the other to ruck up his shirt, the hem of it’s pushed up so high that it brushes his nipples. I’m delighted to see that the moles don’t stop at his neck. Clusters of freckles bookmark spots that I want to sink my teeth into. Dark pants ride low on his hips. He’s gorgeous. The dim light accentuates the dips and crests of his body. I let my eyes trace the shadows to the valley bracketed by his hips. A thin line of bronze hair disappears into the top of his pants and my pulse jumps. My entire body has been lit on fire.

Only the jut of his chin is visible in the top of the frame, depriving me of his curls. I hate that I’m already this invested. I don’t know anything about him except that he hates me and that I’m desperately attracted to him. Fiona would give me hell for this. “Too thirsty for your own good”, she’d say. She’d be absolutely right. 

I’ve been texting the man, whose name I still don’t know, all through the week. A notification bubble greets me in the morning, after practice, and during meals. He’s full of meaningless chatter. We spend half an hour arguing over Niall’s terrible new haircut and Dev’s ridiculous Instagram post. The conversation never extends beyond trivial things, but I smile every time my phone buzzes like one of Pavlov’s dogs. I find myself checking my phone even when it doesn’t buzz. I have to beat down my disappointment when there’s nothing there to my humiliation. Dev’s been giving me odd looks all week, but I couldn’t care less. Let him think I’m texting with Bowie’s ghost for all I care. 

I’ve just gotten home from Thursday night practice when my phone buzzes. I quickly cross the room, throwing my coat onto the hook and slipping off my shoes. I heat up a leftover curry container (my dinner for the night) and unlock my phone. No texts from him, but a couple angry one-liners from Fiona. I don’t respond and flick through channels until I settle on Game of Thrones. My phone buzzes a couple episodes in.

>>> oh god

>>> noooooo

>>> fuck me

>>> why can’t I make one goddam pancake without fucking up one of the sides?!

<<< it’s 11:22

>>> if I want pancakes in the morning I need to make them now

>>> Penny says I need to oil the pan more than once??

I’ve learned that Penelope is his friend from the party. She’s also his roommate, the poor woman must have unmatched patience.

>>> that’s it. I’m done.

>>> this is impossible

>>> can u cook?

>>> I sure as hell can’t and I work in foods

Now that surprises me. He’s made it abundantly clear that he loves food, but I can’t picture him behind a counter working an 8-5.

<<< where?

It takes a few minutes for him to respond and I can see him losing a battle with an undercooked pancake, batter dripping down to his freckled elbows.

>>> Mummer’s Coffee

I’ve been there before, when I went to the university. It’s right across from the quad and always bustling with people on Sundays. Their coffee is subpar at best, but the scones are incredible. The image of him handing over styrofoam cups of coffee to overworked college students fills my chest.

>>> fuck

>>> help me

>>> what tf am I doing wrong??

I ask for pictures, then send the proper corrections to fix them: wait to flip it until you see bubbles, the heat’s on too high, try using a soup ladle for uniform pancakes. By the time a picture of a wobbling stack of pancakes pops up onto my screen the credits of an unwatched episode are rolling and my cheeks are sore from smiling. It’s the sort of private smile I would never allow in public. It’s common knowledge that I have two facial expressions: condescension and annoyance. Smiles are private and rare, and this one’s reserved for the man that blows up my inbox with random facts and observations. The man that sends me pictures of dogs he sees on walks. The man that calls me out whenever I say something crass in my interviews, the man that isn’t afraid to call my bluff. The man that texts me trivial things about his day and asks to hear about mine in return. My cheeks hurt for the man that makes my chest ache and my heart bleed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for making it through the first chapter! Updates will be posted weekly (at least).


End file.
